Paper War

by
Ryan LeKodak

Chapter One

2040, New York, New York

As she peered out through the rear

window of the driverless moving vehicle,
twelve-year-old Emily cried, “There are so
many of them. I’m scared, Ambassador
Okafor!” She clutched her tiny hands. Her
large, green eyes shimmered with unshed
tears and her tiny body trembled. “They're
scanning everyone.”
The young tween looked to the Nigerian
Ambassador for comfort. “How can we get
1
away without getting scanned?” Every
passing moment caused her mind to sink
deeper and deeper into despair. What
would happen if they were caught? If they
were apprehended by the Sparta Security
Ordinance Patrols, would they be treated
fairly and kindly as people? Or would they
be sentenced like all the rest, like animals
in the street?
A whimper escaped her tightly clamped
lips. Her fragile shoulders shook as she
sobbed uncontrollably. The petrified tween
crossed and uncrossed her long thin legs,
moving her long purple skirt with jerking
movements that made the shiny material
look like a billowing parachute. All those
months of therapy were quickly undone

2
and that damned anxious reaction of hers
bubbled back up.
Watching her from the second-row bench
seat, Ambassador Okafor thought, poor
Emily. She has seen far too much violence
in her short life.
Powerful, kind, these were the words
often used to describe the level-headed
Ambassador. Ambitious, diligent, her life
was a testament to both hard work and
guts. But, it was always undermined for the
simple fact that she was the heir to the
Okafor Corporation, leaving her richer than
sin.
All that did not matter anymore. Money
meant nothing in the face of anxiety and
danger. And, indeed, Ambassador Okafor
felt that very sentiment as she sat helpless
3
in the center of a vehicle loaded with
children in distress.
“Why did I allow myself to get into this
mess?” Emily cried, pulling at her curly
auburn hair. “What did I think was going to
happen, snapping pictures of them from
back here?” Her grip tightened, and she
tugged over and over saying, “Stupid!
Stupid…”
“Take a deep breath, Emily,” Ambassador
Okafor reached over, grabbed the young
girl’s wrists, looked her in those deep green
eyes, and guided her. “Now, breathe out
slowly through your mouth,” she urged the
girl. “Now again. Take a big breath, in
through your nose. Now, exhale slowly
through your mouth, like a deflating
balloon. Remember what your therapist
4
told you?” She watched as the young girl’s
shoulders gradually relaxed. “That’s
better,” the ambassador comforted the
child with an affectionate grin, that same
smooth smile of hers was enough to defeat
any man. It was warm, filled with a
confident sincerity that was nothing short of
infectious.
Still in the second-row bench seat,
Ambassador Okafor reached back with her
left hand. She patted Emily’s knee to calm
her, slightly restraining the repeated leg
crossing. Responding to the ambassador’s
gentle but firm pressure, Emily rubbed her
lanky lower appendages. She grabbed
Ambassador Okafor’s hand with both of
hers and began squeezing her fingers in a

5
repeated rhythm as she processed the
ambassador’s firm directions.
“Follow my lead, Emily,” Ambassador
Okafor encouraged the girl. “Hold on to
Max and Zack! You must lead them. I trust
you not to let them wander off track. We
must stay together. Do you understand?”
The ambassador glanced over at the ten-
year-old twin boys who were sitting across
from each other in the swiveling driver and
front passenger seats. “Boys,” the
ambassador cautioned them, “Stay with
Emily. Okay? No running off by
yourselves.”
To be sure they understood her message,
she signed the words with her hands along
with her verbal request.

6
 “Yes, Ma’am,” the blonde-haired twins,
Max and Zack, signed back to her, nodding
their heads to show they understood.
Dependent on social cues, their serious
blue eyes searched her face for signs of
concern.
They were a work in progress.
Ambassador Okafor was pleased with how
far they’d come. Speech therapy had
helped the boys. However, their words
were still forming too slowly. At ten, their
language skills were still less proficient
than those of two-year-old toddlers.
Supplementing verbal skills with signing
was still necessary. Perhaps, the day
would come when their speech was fluent
enough to wean them off signing.

7
 Ambassador Okafor stuck her right hand
out and up to encourage a high-five from
the other two kids sitting next to her. Six-
year-old Cori and five-year-old Danae
demonstrated non-existent eye contact.
Both needed to stay by her side once they
got out of the self-navigating vehicle.
“Cori! Danae! Miss Okafor will be with
you. Let's walk fast! Okay?” She leaned
over to put her face out in front of them, her
eyes commanding the girls’
acknowledgment with their eyes. With
innocent, toothy grins, their eyes briefly
locked onto hers. The two youngest of the
children raised their hands to give her soft
hi-five pats.
They were five youngsters, ages five
through twelve, and one athletic woman in
8
her late thirties against the hundreds of
them hovering outside. Ambassador
Okafor heaved a sigh. Her intelligent grey
eyes swept over her five charges. She
tucked her long dark hair behind her ears
and straightened her broad shoulders.
Their pursuers could—and most likely
would—quickly swarm the daring band
within minutes. Once she and the children
are scanned, they would be swiftly
confirmed as fugitives.
Ala, help us! the ambassador prayed
inwardly to the female deity of morality,
fertility, and creativity. Ala had been looking
after her Nigerian Igbo tribe for centuries.
She was the strength in the dark and the
light when they were lost. Ala was
everything to Ambassador Okafor. And in
9
this moment, these children and I need you
to look after us now! She whispered.
This wondrous deity was the only being
she could rely on for help. No one else was
coming and they were out of time. Please,
Ala! she pleaded silently. Her full red lips
barely moved. It weighed on her.
What if it was not enough? What if this
was the one time prayer could not help? Or
what if I was not worthy? She wondered if,
with Ala’s help, she would be able to
withstand the forces that threatened the
lives of the group.
Suddenly, the Flux XLE, an extended
sport-utility vehicle with the extra third-row
bench seat, lurched to an abrupt stop on W
40th Avenue. They had been ahead of
schedule en route north at sixty miles per
10
hour on 6th Avenue when the rear
passenger tire blew out. ASH, the onboard
vehicle assistant that had full control of the
SUV's speed and torque, had swerved in
and out of moving traffic. It exited the
rapidly moving lanes and skidded into a
stalled position parallel to the curb on W
40th, putting its passengers right at the
park.
“Is everybody alright?” Anxiously,
Ambassador Okafor quickly conducted an
immediate injury assessment of the
children.
Everyone was still buckled in, a little
shook up, but unhurt. Emily, Cori, and
Danae all nodded their heads to confirm
that they were unharmed. The twin boys
signed their “I am OK!” status. Relieved,
11
Ambassador Okafor verbally prepped the
children. They are everywhere outside, she
acknowledged to herself. The kids and I
must move swiftly if we have any hope of
outrunning them. She donned a paisley
patterned silk headscarf, completely
covering her long black hair and her
porcelain-skinned face. Only her alert grey
eyes were visible.
“ASH! Open doors!” The ambassador
commanded the SUV. With a quiet hum,
the falcon wing doors on both sides
unlatched, opened, and retracted upward.
As the doors rose, she mentally outlined an
escape plan, quickly rehearsing their next
moves. Her mind was as sharp as any
blade and as precise as any gun. If prayer

12
truly was not enough, then the gifts Ala had
bestowed upon her would have to do.
At this hour, the crescent moon dimly
illuminated the privately managed
Manhattan public park. They were at the
edge of Bryant Park on 40th and 6th
Avenue. She knew because she
recognized the sculpture of José Otavio
Correia Lima. In the past, she had time to
pause and admire its magnificence, but
tonight was different. Tonight would be a
mad dash.
“This way kids, to the subway station,” she
called, urgently. After helping each one out
of the vehicle and onto their feet, “we must
move quickly,” she led the group, staying
ahead of the children. Cori and Danae
flanked her sides. Emily followed briskly.
13
Ambassador Okafor quickened her steps.
Emily obediently changed her pace. Her
hands clasped each of the twins firmly.
Max and Zack did their best to keep up,
sensing the urgency of the situation.
The six of them made their way on foot
along 6th Ave towards the 42nd and Bryant
Park Subway Station. They had just barely
passed the quarter mark between the
stalled Flux XLE and the subway when she
sensed the infrared beams scanning her
from above her head. She glanced up.
There were five of them. But, she knew all
too well that more would swarm them
shortly. They would pour in from nearby if
she and the children were confirmed
targets. If that was to happen, it would take

14
only moments for them to be completely
eviscerated.
After seeing the beams hovering above
their heads, the five youngsters quickly
crowded around the ambassador, seeking
safety.
Ambassador Okafor consciously
confirmed what she already knew. The
children are not a high priority in the
system. They will not trigger an alarm. It
was a brilliant set of luck in a harrowing
situation. However, if my face gets
scanned, it was the main concern, I will
trigger the alarm. And, their directives were
most assuredly to bring me in.
Expeditiously urging the kids to pick up
their pace, she moved toward the station.

15
 But, even with her face hidden behind the
scarf, the infrared scanners immediately
identified the ambassador as a target.
“Fugitive 85796 confirmed,” a robotic
voice chimed.
“Stand down for inspection,” one of them
demanded in monotonous computerized
modulation. It still hovered above her and
the children. About ten feet above the
ground, its lens reconfigured to get a better
glance at her.
And that’s what scenario ten was for…
Controlling her breathing, Ambassador
Okafor hastily filled her lungs, crouched
down to grab the younger girls around their
waists, and lunged up to dart right into
Bryant Park. She ran as fast as she could
with the children securely fastened under
16
each arm. Although the squirming children
weren’t heavy, their ungainly mass affected
her rhythm, forcing her to slow her pace.
“Emily, through the park!” she shouted,
pointing as the older children followed her
on foot. “Towards the public library!” Emily
tightened her grip on the hands of each of
the younger twin boys, almost dragging
them in her determination to keep up.
An imposing woman, taller than most men
and athletically fit from her daily parkour
exercise routine, Ambassador Okafor could
outrun most of her competitors. But, with
Cori and Danae adding fifty pounds to each
arm, Ambassador Okafor’s impressive
physique tired fast. She began to pant for
air. Reluctantly, she slowed down
drastically after her initial sprint. No matter
17
how strong she was, this was not a
competition nor was this for sport. This was
reality. Life was not some form of training
or test. It had a consequence that she was
unwilling to pay. But, it needed payment
one way or another.
They were right behind her and the
children, still in hot pursuit. Curiously, her
pursuers had not engaged any weapon to
take out her or a single child.
Is this a test? the ambassador questioned
inwardly. She put the girls down, grabbed
their hands, and hustled them alongside
her towards the Stephen A. Schwarzman
Building. She couldn’t afford to allow the
pre-adolescent girls to drag their feet.
They were now in relentless pursuit
formation above her and the children,
18
swarming and sharing tactical data. Their
numbers had grown from just a few to
many.
Running through the park as quickly as
possible, Ambassador Okafor availed
herself of anything she could find to give
the youngsters and her some advantage.
Approaching some outdoor park furniture,
she hoisted the massive, vintage, bistro
chairs, one by one. Her muscles bulged as
she hurled them straight at her pursuers,
trying to break their collective formation.
The impressive display was almost fear
inducing.
The raw power of her might was akin to
that of a Biblical strong man. However, with
a sinking heart, she realized that her efforts
were futile. In their swarmed positions, the
19
ferreters synchronized their agility and
movement. As one, they moved to avoid
colliding with the catapulted chairs.
“Fugitive 85796 confirmed. Stand down
for inspection,” their monotonous
computerized modulations blared straight
at the targets below. They came at her in
carefully orchestrated synchronization.
Their multiple positions increased the
efficiency of the swarm. Yet, they oddly
had not used any weapons on her and the
children. But, they had tightened the circle
that they had formed in their pursuit.
Still, she knew their patient dogging would
not last. The safety of the children and
getting indoors away from the openness of
Bryant Park were her top priorities. She

20
hastened ahead, urging the youngsters to
follow her towards the public library.
The building lay straight ahead. The
Beaux-Arts building was within her sight.
As they raced across the lawn area where
Vaclusienne Pétanque engaged in
activities for enjoyment and recreation
during the day, Ambassador Okafor took
advantage of the two-pound boules lying
on the neatly manicured lawn. They were
more manageable to control than the bistro
chairs she had hurled earlier. She
launched them at the growing formation of
pursuers, now more than double their
previous count. In an effort to gain more
force, she stepped away from the girls. Her
position was akin to the great athlete of the
colosseum, an Olympian discus throwing
21
position. She cannon-balled the boules one
after another with all her strength. The
boules whizzed through the air like bullets.
Their velocity was just as rapid as the
average automobile’s cruising speed. It
was more than enough to do some
damage, to say the least. However, as the
boules approached the swarm, shining
spotlights pulsated. It was their tractor
beams. Catching the whizzing boule-bullets
in midair, they deflected them to the side.
The projectiles plummeted to the ground
like over-ripe cantaloupes. Yet, again, her
attempts were proven futile.
“Fugitive 85796 confirmed. Stand down
for inspection,” the robotic voice repeated.
They had the upper hand. But, she wasn’t
beaten yet. Refusing to acquiesce to their
22
command, the powerful ambassador fled
with the children. She bolted eastbound
towards the library. That was until they
reached the city's flagship Stephen A.
Schwarzman Building. Located next to
Bryant Park, the building’s entrance was
flanked by its iconic marble lion sculptures,
the unwavering Patience and Fortitude.
Ambassador Okafor hurried the children
up the stone steps to the main entrance.
However, she immediately halted in sheer
dread. All three doors were securely
locked. Fleeing was such a priority to her
that she had overlooked the lateness of the
hour. Desperately, she shook each door
sequentially, slamming her fists against
them. It was her hope to unlatch one or at
least to wake up any security guards inside
23
the building. Getting inside was the only
option that would not result in capture. But,
alas, she was out of luck. Tonight, no one
was on duty.
It was over. There was not even a
moment of reprieve, a bit of rest to soak in
all the anguish she felt. Kneeling in front of
the locked doors, complete and utter
despair took over. Then, three scorching
laser beams sizzled above her head. Fire
blazed from three different directions. The
laser beams zeroed in on the middle
entrance doors, burning the locking
mechanism. Once burned, the lock
unlatched. What would happen next?
There was no time to think about it. Ala had
offered her an opening, a chance. Who
was she to look at this gift sideways?
24
 “Run inside, children,” she begged.
“Quickly!” She worked alongside Emily to
herd the others inside the building.
Last to enter, Ambassador Okafor was
right behind Emily. She slammed the
doors, grabbed her headscarf from her
shoulders, and tied the door handles
together with it. She knew the flimsy
material would be no match for her
pursuers. After all, it was just another
desperate attempt to delay the inevitable.
“It would be a miracle if we could
barricade them outside all night. We have
to hide.” She spoke with only enough
clarity to be heard by herself. She wasn’t
sure exactly where to hide. There were
three floors of this ten-thousands-square-
foot flagship. Just about anywhere would
25
do. But, only one place would be absolutely
correct.
Ambassador Okafor and the children
frantically scurried through the hallways.
She had to protect the children until help
arrived. But, when would that be? And, for
how long could she keep this up for? No.
She needed to stay positive. Too much
was depending on her.
Entering the library's world-renowned
Rose Reading Room, they were
immediately mesmerized. Vast,
contemporary, magnificent, the room was
seventy-eight feet wide by two-hundred-
ninety-seven feet long. The fifty-two-foot-
high ceilings were adorned with giant glass
windows. Chandeliers hung from the peak
with multi-tiered glass lights that illuminated
26
the grand space. The room was filled with
the quiet hush of a cathedral.
Magnificent! It was truly awesome. A
woman of culture, the Ambassador
paused. In her private life, she would have
immersed herself on the sheer captivating
awe that was the architecture. But, now, all
she could do was admire it in passing.
Her lungs begged for air. She let her body
float in the magnificence of the Reading
Room. She found herself searching for
memories. Her mind travelled back to the
days when this majestic room housed
thousands of gorgeous, timeless, reference
books. They had lined the open shelves
along the floor level, extending all the way
up to the balcony.

27
 But, again, that was then. Now, she
abruptly snapped out of her reverie, jolted
back to the present, to this dire situation. It
was stark contrast to what was. What was
once a testament to the civility of man now
laid homogenized, corporate, and plastic.
The shelves now housed the latest version
of the Ignite e-Readers from the Sparta
Corporation. Over a thousand of these
Ignite v100 lined the shelves from floor to
ceiling in their operative horizontal position.
Not a single paper book was in sight. All
that was culture now rotted in the greed of
ease.
Suddenly, all the Ignite v100 e-readers
turned on in response to their movements.
It happened the second the ambassador
and the children entered the majestic Rose
28
Reading Room. Their startup sounds
echoed through the library with intimidating
resound. Full of aggression, they sounded
like a pack of ravenous wolves searching
for food in the night. Curbing their wish to
explore the room, the children halted. Their
footsteps sprang backward towards
Ambassador Okafor who was searching for
safety.
After an abrupt startup, “Hello, reader,”
Helene, the Ignite's Operating System
sprung up. It rose to take its silvery-bluish
twelve-by-six-inch holographic stoic head
formation above the screen of each of the
e-readers. “How may Helene help you?”
the OS requested. It waited for feedback.
The v100 was the smallest, thinnest, and
lightest version to date. It was a mere one-
29
by-one inch wide, paper thin, and weighed
a single ounce. To boot, it had unlimited
Remote Cloud CPUs and lasted thirty days
on a single battery charge. Without hearing
any request from the ambassador and the
children, Helene faded. Each Ignite started
to play out holographic snippets of
recommended books from the library's Top
100 list in all of the world's languages. The
Rose Reading Room turned into a concert
hall for the eyes and ears, visually chaotic
and audibly confusing.
“Too loud!” Max and Zack frantically
signed out their terror. “Too loud!”
Likewise, the other children stuck their
fingers in their ears to block out the
overwhelming stimulations. Emily and the
twin boys dropped to the floor. They
30
brought their knees up and rocked back
and forth. Cori and Danae cupped their
hands over their ears in their futility to
suppress the deafening tumults, then
distraughtly flailed their hands, swatting
their ears and faces.
“Helene!” The ambassador demanded.
“Stop book demo! Hibernate!” Ambassador
Okafor screamed loudly enough to be
heard by the e-Readers in the Rose
Reading Room. One by one, the e-
Readers went into hibernation returning the
room's visual and audio commotions to a
serene silence. A few of the Helenes in the
vicinity of the ambassador and the children
in the room stayed active, however. Their
holographic heads slowly turned toward the
group. And, terror ensued.
31
 “Fugitive 85796 confirmed,” through the
still-active Helenes. “Stand down for
inspection,” a robotic warning echoed.
Ambassador Okafor immediately recalled
something dreadful. The Ignites were also
linked to the central mainframe. Their job
included not only collecting data in all
forms, from all avenues, but also receiving
directives. “This is your final warning.”
They have been watching us from the
start of the pursuit.
The Ambassador went into an
uncharacteristically full panic. Our location
has been monitored since the second the
children and I entered the Stephen A.
Schwarzman Building.
She quickly mulled over the events and
steps leading to where they were now. It all
32
started to become insidiously clear. From
the park, they had herded her and the
youngsters into the library like cattle. They
had not escaped from the pursuit outside
into the library for safety. It was so much
more complicated than that. They were not
any safer in here than they had been out
there in the vast openness of Bryan Park.
In fact, given how easy it was to get into
the secured facility, it was like being lured.
“Where do we go now?” Emily asked,
awaiting further instructions.
“I don't know,” the Ambassador wondered,
“I just don't know.”
The thoughts racing through her mind
were almost too much to bear. She eased
back, resting on what had once been a
shelf filled with the literary works of the
33
brilliant dead. But, now, just like them, all
that was her future was lost. Depressed,
the ambassador had ultimately failed. At
least, that was how she saw it. These
children were her responsibility. They
trusted her to keep them safe. Their sole
defense against this world was her. How
could she face them like this? She was
supposed to be their rock, their guide to
this complicated, harsh world. They looked
up to her. But, now, she was just as lost as
they were.
The children all focused on her. Worried
and pleading, their eyes began to well up.
Antsy they began fidgeting as all nervous
children do. Emily’s knees started moving.
But, what could she do? By this point,
Ambassador Okafor and the youngsters
34
were physically exhausted and mentally
defeated.
It can’t end like this, Ambassador Okafor
declared to herself. I will not allow it to end
like this. Please, Ala. Prayer was the first
sign of her failure. Ala was her rock, her
guide, but she had spent her life doing. Ala
was always an observer, a passive
participant. Ala was the creator whose
determination started the motions of the
world. But, it was the gifts bestowed on
people that made it function. At least that
was her belief. And, as such, she fell back
on Ala’s gifts more than once. But, prayer
was not passive. She had begged so much
that evening for divine intervention, for an
active creator. It was her intent to take the
free-flowing construction of fate out of the
35
equation and adhere to the will of a higher
power, but only if that power was in her
favor. Thus, it was only right to assume,
she had failed. But, she was not about to
stop now. Help me save these children,
Ala. I cannot do this alone, anymore.

********************

2001, New York, New York

Simone Peterson awoke to the aroma of

freshly brewed coffee. Joan had already
left for work. Left to her lonesome, she was
sprawled out on their king size bed with the
eight fluffy down pillows of all sizes. It was
just another routine Tuesday morning.
36
 Why do we need all these pillows? Simone
thought. You don't even sleep on a pillow. I
will never understand you, Joan.
Simone wanted desperately to
understand. In fact, she wanted to
understand everything about her petite,
blonde friend. Joan was the love of her life.
Slim, small, and filled with lively charm,
Joan was Simone’s everything. It had been
the best two years since this feisty
statuesque raven-haired beauty had
successfully wooed Joan on their first date.
During that time, Simone had wrapped her
arms around the slim waist of the vivacious
girl and pulled her in. That first kiss was
magical. The moment their soft lips met,
Simone knew she was meant to be with
Joan. She never let go. She couldn’t keep
37
her hands off Joan. When they were
separated, Simone couldn’t stop thinking
about her. Bliss is how she would describe
what she had with Joan. Anyone madly in
love knew the feeling. It was orgasmic, like
the first time a person opened their eyes
and truly understood the colors of the
world. Simone likened their love to being
high on drugs. The euphoria was an
endless high filled with surprises each day.
It was warm, a type of warmth that was
unlike any she had felt before. Before
Joan, the world was as it normally was for
her. But, once she met Joan normal was
not enough. She craved it. She couldn’t get
enough.
“Joan, you are like heroin flushing through
my veins,” she had told the love of her life
38
only last night. “I cannot get enough of
you.” A fond memory, it was a sentiment
that she often remembered, rehearsing the
lines over and over in her head. She would
often say it, unable to capture the depths of
which she felt for Joan. Each day, Simone
reminded Joan of how much she meant.
They often reminisced about their first date
as if it was only yesterday. “Every day feels
like a new experience,” she told the
independent, blue-eyed beauty.
Their pedestal fan was on low. Its three
aluminum blades inside the chrome wire
guards circulated just the right amount of
breeze to cool their small bedroom from
the New York September heat. Simone
rolled over to Joan’s side of the bed. She
took big breaths and bathed in Joan’s
39
flowery scent. She closed her eyes. Recent
memories of her partner’s beautiful bosom
flooded her mind.
“Miss Joan Jiang,” Simone could feel the
words coming off her lips despite just
quietly thinking to herself. I love you to the
end of this world and back, and I will make
you my wife as soon as the law allows us.
Silently, “You’re my forever after,” she
pledged into Joan’s soft sleeping space.
Just as deeply as her heart yearned for
her partner, Simone was abruptly yanked
from a blissful daze. Her amorous thoughts
were interrupted by the strident, startling
vibration of her rPhone. She grabbed the
rPhone and saw that Joan was calling.
“Good morning,” Simone cooed, “my love.”
Her usually raspy voice was thickened by
40
her recent reveries. Love struck was a
disease she was twice acquainted with,
sickly smitten was the proper terminology.
“I am heading up South now,” her
partner’s voice replied. But, instead of her
lively bubbly self, Simone was given a
healthy dose of this all-business Joan. “I
will call you later.”
While Joan’s voice was calm, there was a
lot of commotion in the background. The
noise made it hard for Simone to hear her.
She strained to listen. Men and women
were screaming in obvious distress.
“What is happening?” Simone asked,
alarmed. “What is going on Joan?” Simone
tried her best not to panic. She moved from
her lounging position on the bed to
standing ramrod straight. The muscles in
41
her neck and shoulders rippled. All sorts of
horrible scenarios flashed through her
mind.
Danger was an unwanted nosy neighbor
always inviting itself into these love birds’
wonderful home. As a firefighter, Joan’s life
was on the line every day. Simone
constantly worried about her whenever she
was on duty. But this was hardly new for
Joan.
“It was just another house on fire,” Joan
soothed. She was fully aware of her
partner’s anxieties. But, even more so, she
knew how to defuse a panicking Simone.
The best remedy was always her voice.
Besides, she and her team of New York's
finest firefighters would put the fire out
within the hour. It was just another routine
42
rescue mission. Once the call came
through at the station, everyone grabbed
their gear, climbed onto the shiny red truck,
and roared out to save lives, lights flashing
and sirens blaring.
“Everything will be okay,” Joan assured
Simone before hanging up. Joan was
pretty matter-of-fact about what went on at
work. But, Simone had heard from Joan’s
fellow firefighters of the many stories of
brave firefighters like Joan who had
rescued families from burning infernos.
She knew Joan had rescued men and
women who were miraculously reunited
with families they were sure had been
burned alive. She knew Joan’s favorite part
of the job was rescuing children and
delivering them safely back into their
43
mothers' arms. The look of adoration on
the kids’ soot-covered faces, the tearful
thanks of their parents, and the praise of
the media that followed were reason
enough for Joan’s team to stay in tiptop
shape and to head off to what could easily
be the last day of their lives every morning.
There’s nothing to worry about, Simone
thought to herself. This is just a routine call.
She repeated. Then, why had Joan called
her? If this was so routine, then why the
call? It was bewildering.
Immediately, she had to fight the urge to
dwell in the darkness of her mind. After all,
the memorial wall at the fire station was a
stark reminder that many of their
colleagues had paid the ultimate price to
keep the public safe.
44
 “Turn on the TV! I will call you later.”
Those were Joan's last words to come
through over the background commotions.
“I’ve got to go.” The dial tone abruptly cut
off.
Simone stared at her rPhone. If only Joan
could have stayed on the phone a little
longer to explain the current situation. But
she understood. Duty called. Duty always
called. And, Joan always answered. Even
when she was off duty, Joan diligently
carried her pager and her scanner with her.
But, Joan, Simone said to herself. You
know I do not watch television in the
morning. Simone’s mornings were pretty
predictable. Coffee, shower, and then back
to the Computer Science textbooks to
study C, C++, Java, PHP, Python, and
45
Ruby. So many programming languages,
so little time. With a heavy heart, she
sighed. We all have our calling, she
conceded. It was an undeniable truth but
one that she wrestled with daily.
Joan was very proud of what Simone was
trying to do. “You will rock this world with
your codes one day,” Joan often told her. It
became the preferred mantra whenever a
line of code boggled her mind and agitated
her the whole day. Simone was a hunter.
Until she could come up with a solution,
Simone persisted. Just a workaround, it
would not do. It needed to be correct. She
was like a terrier with a rodent to capture.
“Keep at it,” Joan’s words of
encouragement often continued feverishly.
“You will figure it out.” Joan exuded
46
confidence, reaching out to pat the
shoulder of her black-haired partner. “You
have a passion for this. I see how happy
you are when you completely trounce
existing complex codes! Make those scripts
faster and error-free!”
Of course, Joan was right. Simone adored
these Computer Science courses.
Programming came as naturally to her as
fighting fires came to her partner. The
moment her fingers hit the keys, they
danced. It was ballet. Her masterful strokes
moved with such grace and precision.
Each stroke, each slash, had a poise unto
itself. And, when the script was done, just
like a great maestro, she would run through
it again, removing each imperfection.

47
 It’s like my second native language,
Simone acknowledged. Her pride gleamed.
Can a person have two native languages?
she wondered. C++ would be my primary
native language.
Eventually, Simone broke free from her
wandering thoughts, fixated on
programming languages and all the bug fix
possibilities. Curious, she reached for the
TV remote on the nightstand and flipped on
the tube. She was not prepared for what
she saw next. Suddenly, the reason for
Joan’s hurried call became chillingly clear.
The station was currently broadcasting the
news over its regular morning program.
Delight and the motivational junk networks
often played to get the day started

48
subsides in the way of garish and ghoulish
breaking news.
“Dear God!” Simone yelped. “Have mercy
on us!” Tears flooded her long-lashed
hazel eyes. The images that were playing
out on the local network were documented
in grizzly detail. It was devastating. Her
heart sank to her gut. Nausea heaved in
her stomach, welling up in her chest. She
held her breath until her lungs felt like they
were going to collapse. Her head spun with
many questions. How could something so
horrid happen? When had it happened?
And why would they televise such
devastation? She had to drown it. It was
not real. It could not be so. But, like all
warm-blooded creatures, she had to stop,
and gasp for air. She flipped through the
49
other network stations only to find that the
same devastating news was being
broadcast everywhere.
Her eyes were locked on the TV,
searching for answers. The shower ran and
the coffee boiled. They were all things she
had done subconsciously, naturally. It was
her routine after all. But, it all lay forgotten
as she slithered back into the safety of her
bed, to the end to be closer to the tube.
And, yet the end of bed was not safe
enough. She inched her ample bodice
down onto the floor, hugging her confused
lonesome chest. With arms crossed over
her chest and clenched hands, she moved
her shoulders hoping to comfort herself
and prevent her heart from sinking further.

50
 How could this happen? My partner is out
there, risking her life with hundreds of other
first responders. Her mind raced with
questions faster than it could rationalize its
own thoughts. This is it! This is the life-and-
death situation I feared every time she
went to work.
All of her emotions shut down. It was a
hard reset for her human experience. The
lines of code that constructed her logic
board were completely scrambled. She
forced her lungs to breathe. Gasping for
air, she desperately tried to calm herself
with heavy breaths. It was as if she had to
train her alveoli to breathe again. It was a
dangerous dance. On one hand, she
needed to calm down, and on the other, if

51
she were to be calm she would realize how
powerless she really was.
What could she do to save her beloved
Joan? What power did she have, trapped
behind a TV screen? The inflow of air
subdued her nausea. The room stopped its
spinning. She regained her thoughts.
How? When? Why? she wondered. She
was desperate for answers.
Quickly, Simone glanced at the digital
clock on the nightstand. It read 9:50 AM in
large black digits against the dull grey
backlight. It was not even halfway through
the day yet. It was way too early for any of
this. But, truthfully, when would it ever be
the right time?
“At 8:46 a.m., 9:03 a.m., and 9:37 a.m.,”
the familiar news anchorwoman
52
summarized. It had been rough day for
everyone, and it had just started. She was
tearing up on camera. Who could blame
her? “The first plane crashed into the North
Tower at 8:46 a.m. The second plane
crashed into the South Tower at 9:03 a.m.
The third plane crashed into the western
facade of the Pentagon in Washington,
D.C. at 9:37 a.m.,” the distraught news
anchorwoman reported. She apologetically
excused herself to look away from the
camera. She had to wipe her tears. Then,
she took a deep breath to compose herself.
The people affected, the city, the world,
they were all dependent on her. It was a
crisis, the likes of which children would
read about in classes for years to come.

53
And it was up to her. It was her duty to see
it through.
“At this moment, the White House has
officially declared our nation is under
terrorist attack.” Her lips trembled and her
voice wavered with the horror of her
announcement. It was not often, nor ever,
that a person recognized when history was
being made. And it for damn sure was the
darkest way for it.
Simone sat glued to the TV. Her computer
and her assignment no longer mattered.
Nothing mattered. Everything was all but
forgotten.
I wonder how many millions are doing
exactly what I’m doing right now, she
wondered. How many people had loved
ones there? Did they get to say goodbye?
54
Did they say I love you? Or did they rush
this morning, thinking they would just see
them later? Wait… Did I? Did I say it? Of
course, I did. Right?
Immediately before 10:00 a.m., there was
a lot of commotion at the news desk during
its live broadcast. It seemed like everyone
who was anyone scrambled to get back a
sense of normalcy. But, these were not
normal times. New information seemed to
have been handed over to the news
anchorwoman. It was given to her by hand
because no one was thinking properly.
Prompts were the standard method of
relaying information. But this was so fresh,
so new, that the prompter did not even
have time to key in the info. It was just so

55
much faster by hand. And, the people
needed to know.
“This update has just come through,” she
said, reading from the page in her
trembling hand. “At 9:59 a.m., the South
Tower of the World Trade Center
collapsed. These images are coming to
you live from ground zero.”
A tidal wave of anxiety hit Simone as the
news anchorwoman’s words resounded
through the TV. Her words echoed through
her very soul. Each syllable was another
gunshot wounding her resolve. She could
no longer remain sitting at the foot of the
bed. Drawing up her knees, she wrapped
her arms tightly around them, and curled
into a fetal position. Desperate to feel safe,
she squeezed. Everyone needed to feel
56
safe, she imagined. It was a natural
imperative of the human condition. So, why
was it not working?
“No,” her heart screamed. Rationalizing
the events was not working. “Please, no!” It
was a constant nagging, a tugging on her
heartstrings. Her chest felt like it was going
to explode, rip open, shattering her
ribcage. “Dear, God! Please!” She forced
air out of her lungs in an effort to ease the
overwhelming pain she was feeling. Again
and again, she screamed with all the might
she could muster. But, there was not much
she could drum out from her anguished
body.
She did not say South. I did not hear
South. You're not there, Joan, she
repeated as a mantra to her partner’s
57
safety. You're not there, Joan, she
desperately chanted. You’re in the suburbs
fighting a routine house fire. I know you
are. You said so. You promised me there
was nothing to worry about. Simone
desperately tried to convince herself. It was
all in an attempt to shake her violent
thoughts from thinking the worst. But it was
futile. Her heart knew what her mind
refused to acknowledge. So often is the
truth…

2002, San Diego, California

“Are you ready to serve your country?”

The Marine Recruiter gave Simone a
quizzical look. It was unconvincing as to
58
what was her purpose of standing before
him. Had she gotten lost in the huge
Southern California outdoor mall? It would
be easy to do so. Maybe she was just
going to ask for directions?
Understandably, that could be
embarrassing. In a way, he understood that
sentiment. Who would want to reveal their
ineptitude for directions? But, it could not
be that. It had to be something else.
Perhaps, this raven-haired, hazel-eyed
beauty just needed to use the restroom?
He could not think of any other logical
reason for her to have stopped by his
recruiting office. “If you're lost and need
directions, the mall information booth is
about two hundred yards due center of the
mall. If you need the ladies’ room,” he
59
continued. “it's about sixteen around the
corner. Apologies. The bathroom in our
office is not for civilians, Miss....”
“Sir, yes, sir!” She clicked her heels
together. “Miss Simone Peterson, sir!” She
responded in military formality, cutting him
off. “Ready to serve my country, sir!”
Immediately impressed, the recruiter
remained seated behind his desk. He eyed
her. Standing before him, was a five-foot-
eight-inch, light-brown-skinned, lithe female
figure with a full head of luxuriant dark hair.
With much pride, he beamed at her with a
look of full approval. He reached for a
folder containing all the required sign-up
forms. It would take just a few signatures to
sign her life away. He slid it across the
desk in her direction.
60
 “Which division are you interested in?” he
pleasantly asked. She had come to him
with so much vigor, so much resolve. Out
of respect, he looked to gage her strengths
and weaknesses based on her answer.
Simone confidently droned, “1st Marine
Division! Sir! Only, the 1st Marine Division!
Sir!”
What I am doing here is for you! Joan… I
miss you every day.
Simone kept her burning emotions buried
deeply. It had been a little more than a year
since Joan’s passing. Since duty came
first, she thought it would only be fitting to
honor her legacy with a duty all of her own.
Painfully, Simone had needed time to
learn how to live without Joan. The loss of
someone like that would normally drive a
61
person mad or towards addiction. They had
been inseparable before that unforgettable
day. Just the thought of a life before the
agony was surreal to Simone now. It was
like a dream from which she had
awakened, straight into a nightmare. She
missed it all. Their nightly strolls through
Central Park and their weekend ventures in
Manhattan were just the tip.
I miss watching the sunset with you atop
the Rockefeller Center. I miss sneaking in
a glimpse of you when you didn't notice I
was watching you. And I was always
watching you.
She vividly remembered how Joan’s long,
shiny, blonde, strawberry-scented hair had
felt cascading through her fingers. How her
luscious full lips felt when they kissed. How
62
Joan’s voluptuous bosom aroused her.
And, how she tenderly caressed them
before and after their lovemaking. I swear
that I will never love anyone like the way I
devoted myself to you, she silently pledged
to the love of her life. Her heart had ached
for Joan every day ever since the day
Joan’s courage had taken her up those
steps of the South Tower. It was the worst
day of Simone’s life.
Joan had become a hero to those whom
she helped and rescued. She’d reunited
families, found children, saved lives that
were all but lost. Those people were now
back with their loved ones. They had
gotten to be whole again. Meanwhile,
Simone was left with a heavy heart,
missing the one she loved. She was
63
abandoned in the worst way, through a
heroic death. How she begged for her lover
back, knowing full well that Joan had to be
there. Joan had to save those people. She
had to risk her life. Because if she did not,
she would have been miserable, regretting
every waking moment of her life.
I miss you every moment of every day, my
love, my Joan Jiang. My heart is broken
with every breath I take. And I’m only
breathing because I know you would want
me to.
New York had not been the same without
her. It had not been the same after the
incident. There was a togetherness, a
solidarity. But, that was only for those who
survived. For the lost, both the dead and

64
abandoned, it was a cold reminder that no
one is ever truly safe.
So, Simone had packed up and driven
almost three thousand miles across the
country to Southern California. Specifically,
she went to San Diego in search of a fresh
start, something she desperately needed.
Her new life would be with the United
States 1st Marine Division. There was a
purpose in this new start.
This purpose is to avenge your death. To
do that, I need military training and access
to firearms. Simone knew what she had to
do and how to accomplish her goal. She
would go after those bastards that took
down the towers. Hunt them. Kill them.
That was her only purpose now. That was
her duty.
65
2003, Camp Pendleton, California

At this hour, American and coalition forces

are in the early stages of military
operations to disarm Iraq, to free its
people, and to defend the world from grave
danger. President George W. Bush
declared.

The resolute decision behind these

commanding words had come through the
Marine Corps Base Camp Pendleton
months before the Commander in Chief
announced the invasion in a televised
message broadcasted across the country.
This was then rebroadcasted to many parts
66
of the world on March 19, 2003. Major
General James Mattis had briefed the
mission with the 1st Marine Division a few
weeks prior.
“You must understand the importance of
this mission,” Major Gen Mattis
emphasized. “You have trained for
missions like this after what happened to
our homeland on September 11.”
“Sir, yes, sir!” The 1st Division all agreed.
They saluted. Their willingness to obey and
serve their country was resounding. No
questions. No reservations. They were to
fly out to Baghdad, Iraq immediately. That
was all.

67
 ********************

2003, Fallujah, Iraq

My name is Nadira Saleem, and I beg

you, Ali, to pardon my husband, Dar
Saleem. Pardon him for occasionally
raising his voice to his wife, Nadira, his
daughter, Farrah, and his son, Manar. He
has lost his faith in his family. He has lost
his faith in you. He has turned to the arak
bottle for comfort, and it has affected him
grossly. But his two children and I still dote
on his every word and deed. We love him
as husband and father. I forgive him. The
children forgive him. I beg you, Ali, to
pardon him and let us into heaven together
as a family.

68
 As Nadira pleaded for her family, the
armed militia dragged her out onto the
street by the luxuriant, dark hair on her
head. A Sunni, a part of the irregular force
under Fedayeen's paramilitary, the militia
member grasped Nadira’s hijab and flung it
aside. Frantic, Nadira reached back with
both her hands to grab his wrist. She tried
to pull herself up to her feet, desperate to
anchor herself onto the ground to support
her weight. It was all that mattered to her.
Intent on her purpose, she ignored the
excruciating pain. All of it was irrelevant to
her. She didn’t even hear her hair ripping
from the root follicles of her scalp. Blood
seeped out, slowly trickling down her face.
It will soon be over. Nadira told herself. I
will soon be free of the Sunni’s handgrip.
No more dragging. No more pain. There
will only be peace. I will be at peace. With
69
my husband… daughter… And my beloved
baby boy, she desperately convinced
herself, praying to Allah for swift
intervention.
To her left, Nadira spied her daughter,
Farrah. Beautiful and small, she was just
ten years old. The small, dark-haired child
watched with her haunting eyes like black
almonds. Farrah had not seen much of this
world’s cruelty. Her family had not traveled
beyond the city border after she was born.
It was far too dangerous. But unfortunately,
the danger had come to them. Another
armed militia member grabbed her. The
child was dragged alongside her mother.
This man was not a Sunni. He looked more
like a Shia, also part of the irregular force
under Fedayeen's paramilitary. One of his
massive arms grasped the child’s narrow
waist, half dragging and half hoisting up the
70
small preteen. Farrah struggled as much
as a child of her stature would be capable
of, but her efforts were futile. It was
especially futile against a grown man twice
the physique of her father.
Farrah cried and screamed for her
mother. Hearing her cries, Nadira cried out
to her daughter, despite her voice lacking
both strength and volume. Struggling to
free herself from the Sunni, Nadira was
desperate to rescue her daughter. She
gasped for breath and rasped out a reply to
her terrified child.
“Farrah,” Nadira called out to her, “be
brave! Close your eyes! Pray to Ali, my
sweet child!”
To her right, Nadira could barely see her
son, Manar. Dripping blood blurred her
vision. Her scalp was barely attached. The
skin was lacerating slowly. She blinked
71
hard in an attempt to squeeze the red-
blotched tears out of her eyes. No longer
could she see her beloved son, Manar, for
blood was not like water. It was thick and
sticky. There was a type of opaqueness to
it. And it was the opaqueness that made it
so terrible. Her sight was drowning in a
man-made red sea. Desperately, she
searched for the blurry figure of her five-
year-old son. There was only the silhouette
of his frame. But, she heard him.
Manar’s cry for help was unlike the sound
he had made throughout the past five
years. It was not the sound he made
emerging from her womb at childbirth. That
sound had brought joy to her heart. And it
was not like his squeals of joy at the
discovery of a new toy. Nadira had early
learned to read her child’s cries. One of
them alerted her to an injury. Another told
72
her that Farrah had taken one of her
brother’s toys and that he was irritated and
frustrated. But not really. Though a mother
could understand the variety of noises her
creation could make, that would assume
she was in the right frame of mind.
The human body releases many
chemicals to balance the states of the
human condition. Needless to say, Nadira
was not in a balanced condition. Her mind
was frantic and playing tricks on her. It, just
like her, was desperate to find peace. But,
soon, she realized that her little boy rarely
cried out as he was now. The sound he
was now making was not like all those
other sounds. It was one of desperation.
And it would bring terror to a mother’s
heart.
Manar made these same piteous cries
when he fell and hurt himself. His cries told
73
of agony, terror, and abandonment.
Nadira’s son was desperate to break free
from another Fedayeen militia who held
him like a small helpless puppet. He cried
out of fright, scared of not knowing what
was happening to his father, his mother,
and his sister. He cried out of total
confusion. The five-year-old boy did not
understand. His world lacked the definition
of cruelty. And, as such, the shock was just
jarring.
Then suddenly, Nadira heard nothing. The
silence was deafening. Her little boy was
no longer crying. Nadira panicked. And it
became her turn to scream.
“Manar?” she questioned as her body
became still. A smile cracked as her eyes
widened. “I’m here,” her mouth could not
help but tremble as blood seeped into it.
“Mama is here! Manar!” And tears poured
74
out. “Husband?” Nadira called out. “Where
are you? The children and I need you.”
She barely had the breath to whisper out
the words. The sea of red had completely
obscured her vision. What she saw now
was mostly a memory of what she had
glimpsed previously. There were the blue
skies, because she remembered blue
skies. She saw her city because that was
how she knew it. She glimpsed her home
only because that was where she wanted
to return. The faces of her husband, her
daughter, and her son floated in front of
her. She dreamed of their lives before the
Fedayeen’s militia and the invasion. What
was in front of her could have been, and
she did not care. That was her reality. This
was not.
Truthfully, Nadira could no longer see
what was happening around her. But, she
75
could hear Dar calling for her and their
children. His voice was barely audible from
where she was. But, she sensed that he
was nearby. His faint voice did not sound
like himself. Dar seemed beaten down,
marred, and devoid of life. She feared that
this man, the father of her children, her
soul mate, was drowning in the same red
sea that had robbed her of her sight.
“What have these Sunni and Shia done to
you, beloved?” she whispered. “I am
praying for you, my love. I am praying for
our children. Allah has opened his arms for
us. Do you see Ali, Dar? Do you see…”
Nadira desperately squinted through the
red haze. One last time, she forced the red
sea out of her eyes. But, deep down, she
wished she had not. There was peace in
not knowing. There was hope. All that died

76
when she clearly saw Dar being pummeled
by two Fedayeen militiamen.
Then posthaste, the men propped Dar up
as a protective carapace in front of them.
She was in the same position with the
Sunni behind her. Her daughter, Farrah,
was also in front of her Shia captor. Her
son had been equally placed in front of his
militia attacker.
What are they doing? A shield? Why a
shield? Why are they using my husband as
a shield? she wondered. Why are these
cowards hiding behind a helpless woman
and her children?
“Take cover! Take cover!” She heard the
Fedayeen men repeat over and over in her
native Arabic.
How dare they? How dare they desecrate
her beloved tongue? These men… No they
were not men. Men take care of their own.
77
These creatures were cowards, killers.
Allah would rain down vengeance upon
them, the bastards capable of such cruelty.
Within seconds, the building from which
Nadira and her family had been dragged
exploded behind them. Rocket-propelled
grenades whizzed by them. The high
velocity rounds whirled with so much force
that her ears rang in response to the
deafening explosion.
Nadira could no longer hear Dar, Farrah,
and Manar. The sound was so
overwhelming that she could not tell if they
were still with her. There was only a loud
painful ringing piercing her ears. Then the
bullets came for them. Enemies had
targeted the Sunni and Shia behind them,
eviscerating the militia. The separation
between Nadira’s family and their captors
was too minuscule for the whizzing bullets
78
to differentiate their bodies from their
captors. One by one, the Fedayeen men
fell, victims of the foreign bullets coming
from the buildings across the street.
Desperation quickly turned to despair. In
vain, Nadira shrieked in her native Arabic
at the heavily armed foreigners. “Please
don't shoot! We are civilians! My children!
Please stop shooting!” she cried. “We are
not your enemies. We were captured by
them.”
The foreigners heard her screaming. But
they did not understand her Arabic tongue.
With all the dust from the collapsed
building, could they see her? Could they
see her unarmed captive family?
In the dusty haze, she painfully witnessed
her Dar falling. Then, her Farrah was cut
down by the bullets. Nadira’s hands flew to
her eyes as if to shield herself from the
79
image. She closed her eyes and took one
last breath. “Ali, please bless my family,”
she pleaded.
She sank to her knees. A high-pitched
sound filled her ears. What was the shrill
shrieking noise? The sound was an
unnatural almost demonic piercing chime.
And it was only a moment. It was a fleeting
few blinks before she realized the wailing
was coming from her cracked lips.

********************

2003, Abuja, Nigeria

A white Rolls Royce slowed to exit the

tree-lined road. The sleek, luxury car
80
turned right into the mile-long driveway. A
smooth ride, it slowly rolled up to the
double black iron gates that secured the
grounds of the estate property.
Blacked-out windows rolled down. The
uniformed driver leaned out the window.
He pressed the linked gate control from the
Rolls dashboard.
“Welcome to the Okafor Manor,” he
announced in his Nigerian Igbo dialect to
the two passengers relaxing in the cabin
behind him. Checking on them in the
rearview mirror, he noticed something
peculiar. Even on this hot summer day,
they had not touched the sparkling water
bottles on ice.
They must be nervous, the driver
concluded. The first time here can be
81
nerve-racking, he noted. And, it was true.
This lifestyle was not for the faint of heart.
A Rolls Royce, a private estate: this was
not the lifestyle of a commoner. It was
commonplace for the ultra-rich, but that
kind of common was not common at all.
The motorized massive iron gates were
ornate. They were festooned with large
cast brass and speckled gold leaflets in an
embellished circle resembling the letter 'O'
on each gate. The gates slid silently open
inward towards the manor. Glints of golden
brass reflected from the mid-afternoon sun
shimmer on the driver's face whilst he
accelerated the Rolls. It entered the
pristine terracotta driveway leading to a
large circular fountain that bubbled in front
of the expansive courtyard. Subtly was a
82
formality that had no place in Okafor
Manor.
Taking another peek, the driver looked in
the rear-view mirror. He found his
passengers outwardly in awe of the size
and beauty of the estate’s architecture. The
structures were just right outside the plush
comfort of the Rolls. Remembering fondly
his first time at the estate, he deliberately
slowed to a complete stop, and parked in
front of the manor. Then, he quickened his
pace to open the passenger door of the
opulent white Rolls Royce. Smoothly, he
assisted the guests from the limousine and
ushered them to the front steps of the
manor. Ostentatious, the large steps
sparkled as radiant as gold. The trim was
distinct and cultured. And on it, a tall,
83
sinewy, well-groomed butler greeted them
with a formal salutation in Igbo dialect. He
was prim and proper, as well put together
as the estate itself. A true first-class man of
service, he addressed the doctor first.
“Good day,” the butler addressed Doctor
Habe and Nurse Runsewe. “I am the
butler, Emeka Wachuku. I hope you've had
a pleasant ride over with Abadom. His
driving can be prehistoric with squared
wheels.” He was concerned, so his tone on
the last comment sounded more like a
reprimand than a humorous comment.
Giving the driver a disapproving glare, he
dismissed him to his next task. As the Rolls
pulled away, he continued to inform the
estate’s guests. “Master Okafor and his
lady are anxious to meet you. Abadom will
84
take care of your luggage. My staff will
unpack your belongs in the East Wing
rooms where you will find much comfort.”
Effortlessly, the butler glanced over at the
three neatly dressed female servants
standing to his left. It was more than clear.
This was the head of the staff. It was his
sworn duty to manage the estate’s
workers. And, the results were more than
evident. This place was more than just
opulent. it was a whole other world. “This
way,” he motioned for the guests to follow,
“if you’d please.”
Doctor Habe was entirely in awe as she
followed the butler towards the twenty-five-
foot-stained glass door entrance to the
manor. It was huge. The likes of which, she
had only seen in movies, in books. To
85
stand in such a triumph of interior design
was just too overwhelming. However, she
tried hard not to overreact, keeping her
emotions in check.
Replacing Lagos in 1991, Abuja has
become the capital city of Nigeria. It was
located right in the center of the Federal
Capital Territory. Within Abuja, the
Maitoma district was home to the crème de
la crème. It was no wonder top politicians
of the country chose to reside there.
Wealth and status competed in the form of
a sprawling display of moneyed wedding-
cake mansions within the thirteen-
thousand-three-hundred-fifty square-foot
district. Each elite tried to outdo the other.
Bigger and more extravagant were the
benchmarks of success.
86
 Doctor Habe stared in disbelief standing
on the property grounds of the Okafor
Manor. It was an honor to be on such
grounds, as they ranked at the top. The
entirely hidden manor laid a mile inward,
away from driven roads.
Such beauty and serenity, Doctor Habe
thought. “This place is amazing.” The
overjoyed doctor said to the imposing
figure of Emeka. Equally impressed, Nurse
Runsewe walked beside the doctor.
Everyone has a unique way of expressing
joy. Nurse Runsewe’s was more in line with
an ever-growing smugness. She giggled
with overwhelming joy over her current
reality of accompanying the doctor on this
requested visit.

87
 “Would you please calm yourself?” Doctor
Habe hissed. “And stay behind me.” The
doctor nudged her nurse into action. This
was an important visit, and the doctor
would not risk leaving any bad
impressions. She knew, all too well, how
her assistant acted when she got a whiff of
superiority. It did not matter what side of
the aisle Nurse Runsewe was on, she
would become absolutely insufferable.
Being the country's most prestigious
physician in obstetrics and gynecology,
Doctor Habe had assisted a myriad of
complicated births. Her feats were nothing
short of miracles in many cases. The
parents of which had praised her work after
holding healthy children in their arms for
the first time. So, today, standing here in
88
the Okafor Manor, the doctor considered
this day a miracle in itself. She reviewed
the monumental architecture, the luscious
beauty of the outside grounds, and the
specific request for her presence here to
assist with the birth of the Okafor baby.
Miraculous. It was nothing short of a
miracle. That’s what it was. The service
request had come to the Abuja Clinics in
Maitoma the day before. The clinic usually
did not acquiesce to requests of this
nature. The facility was by far the best
private hospital in Abuja. It was well
equipped to handle all kinds of medical
services that most world-renowned
institutions could provide. Their services
were, however, costly. Hence, they
specifically catered to the upper class.
89
They were not affordable for the hoi polloi.
But, what was? Regardless of the usual
protocol, the request was accepted within
an hour of its receipt.
“The Okafor requests specifically for the
Head of Obstetrics and Gynecology and
one nurse to assist with the in-home birth
of their baby in exchange for unlimited
funding to build out the Clinic's East Wing,”
the Director of Operations had informed
Doctor Habe. “Go home and pack your
luggage,” the Director continued. The strict
directives were oddly specific, as he
ushered the doctor out of the OB-GYN
ward. “Grab Nurse Runsewe on your way
out. You're both on a working vacation. Do
not come back until the Okafor baby is
healthy and in Lady Okafor's arms.”
90
 It should have been a simple birth. Habe
had delivered so many children. Even the
most complicated of births were simply
procedural for her. However…
“At whatever cost,” Lady Okafor stressed.
The womb was far more enlarged than
usual. “You must save our precious baby
girl, Eze!” Lady Okafor gravely beseeched
her beloved Ezediugwu. She could feel
something was wrong inside her enlarged
womb. “This birth will not be an easy one,”
Lady Okafor warned. “Something is not
right. Please hurry, Eze!” It was faith. She
had faith that she could trust Eze. Lady
Okafor knew Eze would do whatever it took
to make things right. He always did. She
need not have worried.

91
 On the contrary, her body disagreed. Her
baby girl was giving her signs from inside,
clawing, and kicking. That was all a baby
could do because the little bundle of joy
could not yet cry out for help.
“Consider it done,” assured Ezediugwu.
“I've made some arrangements,” He told
his wife, but his face said otherwise. There
was no accounting for the complications of
childbirth. If a child or mother were injured,
or even worse, then there were limited
remedies that modern medicine could
utilize. Medicine at best was always a
gamble. And, the Okafor’s had the best at
their disposal. Still the knowledge that
there was a chance, a possibility, that
something could be out of his control was
what bothered the master of the house.
92
And, he wore it on his face. “Now rest, my
dearest Amadia, my lightning spirit,” her
beloved Ezediugwu cooed.
The last eight and a half months had been
an incredible period of blissful maternity.
Everything went as intended. Lady Okafor
had eaten well. The estate chef had
catered to all her pregnancy cravings no
matter how absolutely strange they
sounded. Her beloved Eze had enjoyed a
few new dishes with special worldly spices.
It was great for him, although he had made
faces over one or two dishes immediately
after the first bite. However, he doggedly
trained his taste buds to tolerate the
unwanted sensation and finished what was
on his plate. It was all with the help of
generous amounts of wine.
93
 No man had ever loved Amadia the way
Eze did. The beads of sweat on her
husband’s forehead told Lady Okafor that
he was trying to be a good husband and
meet her every request. He was doing his
best to mask his worry to alleviate her
anxiety. But, when a king’s queen is in
peril, he tends to worry.
True to the meaning of his name,
Ezediugwu, he was a prestigious king,
master of his domain. In fact, there were no
longer actual kings in Nigeria. Royal blood
was no longer recognized as in ages past.
However, the hoi polloi in this country
regarded him as their king. The manor staff
saw him as their king. As such, Amadia
was viewed as his fair lady by all.

94
 Eze had never considered himself a king
like the citizens had portrayed him. This
was just his country. In his mind, he was
just a man born in the right place at the
right time, with the right connections. It was
all the work of a higher power. He could
have easily been born the son of a
fisherman or a lush. He recalled the words
of his father. “Let those who revere you
think what they may. But, know that,
without them, you are nothing. Help the
less fortunate once you have a shelter over
your head. Never toss away a full plate of
food. For, you know that the next day, you
could go hungry.”
In a way he was king in that regard.
Ezediugwu's late father was a wise man, a
devoted husband, and a loving father. Eze
95
revered him as a child, into his manhood,
until his very last day on earth.
As a wise man’s son, he lived his life in
ways to achieve his father's standards. To
be a good man, a good husband, and a
provider, that was all Eze wanted to be. He
was always devout to his wife. There was
no doubt that he would cherish his baby girl
once she was in his arms. For many years,
he had helped the needy through his
philanthropy. He worked hard for the
wellbeing and education of the less
fortunate Nigerian children. Thus, his
selflessness made him beloved and
renowned across Nigeria. They were, after
all, his people. Yeah… He was a kind king
in deed.

96
 “Without generosity,” Ezediugwu's father
had maintained, “wealth is meaningless.”
The Okafor family wealth had been
amassed as a direct result of their
generosity. This philosophy was ingrained
in his son’s upbringing. The art of giving,
providing was fundamentally more
important to them than achieving, of
having.
Generosity, indeed, had given
Ezediugwu's father a good head start in
this tribal country. It all began when his
dear friend, Festus Fadeyi, became the
Chairman and Managing Director at Pan
Ocean Oil Corporation, a company that
provided oil and gas exploration and
production services in Nigeria in 1973.
Festus and his father shared a close
97
friendship. They were inseparable until
they met their wives, twin sisters. Luck
always comes twice. Their friendship
quickly turned into a foursome, an
inseparable bond of trust, love, and honor
between the two-family names. A king and
his most trusted ally, it was a true fairy tale.
Festus and Ezediugwu's father wooed the
empowered government officials and
politicians. Their wives charmed them
through exquisite dinner parties at their
houses. Thus, the petroleum licenses and
contracts flowed in during the next three
years. This was before Marathon Oil
Corporation offered to buy out Pan Ocean
Oil Corporation in 1976. Within those short
three years, Ezediugwu’s father acquired
the needed funds, important government
98
contacts, and business acumen to start up
the Okafor Corporation on his own. A
powerful move only a king would have the
foresight to make. He ventured into real
estate development and continued to grow
it to the massive empire it was today,
employing close to twenty-five percent of
Nigeria. Truly, he was always a man of the
people.
“Helping to feed the less fortunate
through job creation is the way to build a
successful company,” Ezediugwu's father
always insisted. His words resonated
throughout the Okafor Corporation for
many years after his passing. And, it was
all Ezediugwu could think of now. He
thought of all that had come to pass as he

99
worried about his wife, now under the
doctor’s competent care.
“Lady Okafor,” soothed Doctor Habe.
“You must keep breathing. You will need to
push hard when I tell you to. Your beautiful
baby girl needs your help to push her out
into this world.” Doctor Habe made her
request clear to Lady Okafor. Her voice
was stern but calm. She was in the
presence of a woman who, for all intents
and purposes, was a queen. How could
she command such a powerful woman?
And, much worse, if she were to fail in any
way, what would such a woman do to her?
But, she could not concern herself with
such thought. She had a job to do. This
baby would come out healthy. The mother

100
would be properly taken care of, and her
record of success would be maintained.
Lady Okafor concentrated on the doctor’s
instructions and continued her Lamaze
breathing. She was fully aware of the
obstructed labor situation with her
daughter. A mother always knew. It was
her body, after all. She knew what she had
to do. She had to work with the doctor to
free her baby girl from her womb.
“Be patient, baby girl,” Doctor Habe
crooned. “You'll be in your mother’s arms
soon. Your daddy, the king, is also here,
waiting for your arrival.”
Lady Okafor took deep breaths and
pushed upon Doctor Habe's consistent
urging. She felt the doctor assisting her
unborn baby, her hands rotated her little
101
girl upside down, and then right side up.
Her fingers untangled the umbilical cord
around her neck, freeing her baby. Feeling
the labor coming to an end, Lady Okafor
clenched her jaws and gave a few more
powerful pushes. Her efforts were
rewarded, handsomely. With a gush, her
precious unborn child was released from
her womb. It was a fight well fought. And,
life persevered. Lady Okafor reached out
her arms. Tears rolled down her beautiful
cheeks. She screamed out for her baby girl
to let her know she was nearby.
“Ndidiamaka, my patient Ndidiamaka!” she
cried out. Just then, she heard her
newborn take her first breath. The baby
wailed out loud, just as any healthy baby
would. “Our Princess Ndidiamaka Okafor is
102
here, my king!” A worn-out Lady Okafor
tried to drum up excitement from deep in
her soul. She announced her baby girl's
arrival to the world. Holding her for the first
time in her arms, she felt the majesty of
bringing life into the world. Eze stood
proudly right at their side.
A strong child, Ndidiamaka cried out in
response to Lady Okafor’s voice, stretching
her little lungs to their full capacity. The
clever girl already sensed that she could do
no wrong in this world. The loving looks of
the king and lady beaming down at her
were a strong clue.
With the Okafor healthy baby delivered,
praise for the doctor flooded in from the
Okafor’s. And why would they not? When a
king christened his conquest complete,
103
there would be a party, a celebration. The
queen had just accomplished what no man
could: She had birthed. And, it was Doctor
Habe who helped her.
“Thank you, Doctor Habe,” the tired Lady
Okafor graciously said.
“You truly work miracles,” said her
husband who could not hold back his joy.
“We can never thank you enough for
saving our baby girl.”
These praises had been heard many
times before at the Abuja Clinics. They
were pretty commonplace. Parents, no
matter how many children they had, could
never fully grasp the miracle of childbirth.
Each child was a new person, a new life
that did not exist before. And, parents
made them. It was a sense of pride that
104
was instinctual and yet overwhelming at
the same time. Yet, somehow, hearing the
words reverberate here within the walls of
the Okafor Manor was different. An
average person being humbled by her
world was satisfying. But, someone of the
Okafor’s stature reduced to praising a lowly
person like Doctor Habe, despite her
prestige, made her feel more appreciated.
Their words actually made her tear up. It
could have been their status. Or, it could
have been the sincerity in their voices.
Definitely, it was due to the baby girl's
selfless father and loving mother.
A real miracle, this birth was a fight unlike
any other. The Okafor baby girl was
entangled in multiple loops of the umbilical
cord. Pulling her out before untangling the
105
loops would have snapped her fragile neck.
The umbilical cord would have formed a
noose around her and strangled her. It was
delicate. The whole procedure was a labor
even for the doctor. As a good doctor, she
rotated the baby numerous times to
untangle and free the child from the
impossible loops. It had taken Doctor Habe
some time to do so.
Even as a newborn, the Okafor’s precious
girl showed the same great patience she
had displayed during the hour-long rotation
process. She was a credit to the meaning
of her name, Ndidiamaka.
Much later, Nurse Runsewe had their
luggage brought down by the staff. The
driver loaded it into the Rolls Royce. Even
though it pained them, it was time for them
106
to leave and let the Okafor's enjoy their
time together as a new family. “The king
and his lady are peacefully resting with
Princess Ndidiamaka in between them,”
Doctor Habe told Nurse Runsewe.
The two guests entered the grand salon to
say good-bye to Butler Emeka. They
noticed that he was engrossed in the news
segment being broadcast on the giant
plasma TV hanging on the west wall.
Troubled, the news anchorman reported
on an emerging situation of the Counter
Terrorism Services playing out in Iraq.
Specifically, there was crossfire between
the US 1st Marine Division and the
Fedayeen irregular forces in the city of
Fallujah. In the conflict, civilians had been
used as human shields. A family, a mother,
107
a father, and their two children were
casualties, caught in the crossfire.
“We live in such a violent and despicable
world,” a disgusted Doctor Habe
commented. “Save the children whenever
and wherever you can.” Doctor Habe
shook her head while Nurse Runsewe
covered her mouth in disapproval. With the
news behind them, Doctor Habe said good-
bye to the female manor staff. She hugged
the less imposing Emeka.
Then, she took one last look at the
mesmerizing twenty-five-foot-stained glass
door entrance. It was a sight she would
cherish for the rest of her life. She walked
out onto the fountained courtyard, slid into
the white Rolls Royce, and sat next to
Nurse Runsewe. Celebrating another
108
successful delivery, the good doctor
grabbed a bottle of icy sparkling water from
the chilled silver bucket. The uniformed
Abadom softly stepped on the gas pedal
and the Rolls accelerated taking down the
long drive. Doctor Habe took one last look
at the manor through the limousine’s rear
window. She would never forget the time
she spent there. In her private days, she
could always look back and reminisce
about the day she helped a kind king and a
radiant queen by delivering a beautiful,
strong, princess.

********************

2003, Fallujah, Iraq

109
 Sixteen days of sustained combat was
exactly what she had signed up for. The
1st Marine Division had covered
approximately eight hundred kilometers—
no small feat for a division engaged in
constant combat. Combat fatigue had
mentally and physically taken its toll.
Simone and the squad were completely
drained, fueled only by the nationalistic
pride that now coursed through their veins.
It was their blanket when they were cold,
their extra clip when they needed to return
fire, and their punching bag when they
needed to just scream.
Combat was hell on Earth. Only pride got
them through.

110
 The division had advanced into the midst
of enemy territory. Their mission was to
subdue the pockets of remaining
resistance that spread across the city of
Baghdad. Subdue was a great word written
on forms by pencil pushers and relayed in
transmissions. But, they knew better. The
division knew why they were out there.
Subdue… There was only one way to win a
war.
Fallujah was a town where the Fedayeen
paramilitary militia had taken civilians
hostage. If that had been explained to any
normal American citizen, they would have
been puzzled. This was a corner of the
world that Americans barely knew. The
experts often glanced over it. And, now,
they expected distressed soldiers to be
111
able to tell the difference between factions
that had been warring since the days of
Sodom and Gomorrah! They did not
understand. There was no understanding
who was right and who was wrong. It was
so hard to tell the difference between the
two. An educated person would know, yes.
One who had studied or had previous
knowledge of the region would be able to
relay accurately what was going on. But, to
the rest of the world, Fallujah, Iraq, might
as well have been Mars.
“Lance Corporal Peterson, Private
Joseph, and Private Edwards,” said Staff
Sergeant Steven Roberts, their squad
leader, “you three head to the roof. You're
our eyes in the sky.” Roberts commanded
his men with inspiring certainty. “Everyone
112
else, you’re with me. Be alert! Watch for
unarmed civilians.” Staff Sergeant Roberts
signaled the squad to move forward down
the narrow street after Private Joseph,
Private Edwards, and Simone had reached
the roof of the building. It was just five
hundred feet from where the Fedayeen
militia had staked out. Well under two
hundred yards, that was how close they
were to the site of action. That was the
same distance between exits on a highway
or the seventh hole on Pebble Beach. How
different measurement was with a gun at
the other end of it.
Flattening their bodies on the rooftop with
their M27 infantry automatic rifles
positioned, they were ready to lock on and
take out any of the armed Fedayeen militia.
113
Their eyes scanned the streets below
through the impressive scopes of M27s.
With trigger fingers ready, they stayed
ahead of their advancing squad.
What I do here will make the world a
better place for many, Simone mused. One
day, she reminded herself, I will make a
contribution for the one I love. It was half-
heartedly the greatest lie she’d ever told.
She yearned for a second chance at love.
She needed to feel that rush of passion
again.
Was this really for Joan? Or was this the
embittered vendetta of a woman robbed of
happiness? Can I ever hope to find that
true love in life again? The quiet of her
mind wandered on. Do I deserve a second
love? It would be impossible for Simone to
114
forget her first love. The first love, true love,
was something so magical it could not be
destroyed by doubt or anxiety. It could only
be robbed. I must always remember.
Indeed, it had been taken from her. Ripped
in her moment of absolute security. Love
was something that the old Simone
experienced, back in New York. I still miss
you, Joan Jiang. But, they were not in New
York anymore. It was not even the same
year. She had used that pain, that affliction
to fuel her need to be on this other end of
the world. And she held it – the thought of
Joan made her heart ache anew.
I hope one day I will find another love. It
was that pain that was going to get her
through this. It was that pain that would
make the awful things that she would have
115
to do so much less terrifying. Would Joan
really love what Simone had become?
For now, the mission had one purpose. It
was to help. It would help the people of
Iraq. And, more importantly, it would help
her heal. Her wound had not recovered. It
was subdued but not cured. New York
never felt the same way. The sorrows of its
people put them in a state of mourning
limbo. Like many, Simone was still falling
into the pitch-black pit of profound loss.
Pain was the currency in the pit and there
was plenty to go around. Desperately,
Simone wanted to climb up and out of the
hole. Every day, she would try to claw her
way up and out. There had to be a way out.
Suddenly, a rope tossed down to her.
This was it. This was the mission. That
116
rope was her lifeline, her way out of the pit.
She grabbed onto the line. Her trigger
finger was ready and her weapon was live.
Through the scope of her M27, Simone
spotted an Iraqi family dragged against
their will out onto the street below. Man,
woman, two young children, a girl and a
boy. They were desperately screaming out
for help, kicking, and struggling to escape
from their captors.
Little did anyone know, the Fedayeen
militia was fully aware of the approaching
1st Marines Division. That was how these
things worked. Bad intel or a mouthy POW.
It did not matter. This was war in the
modern era, one big game of chicken
mixed with tag. The Fedayeen militia was
resorting to hostile and deplorable tactics,
117
using civilians as shields. Those were
unarmed men, women, and children that
couldn’t defend themselves. What
monsters would take human lives and treat
them no better than cattle?
“Cowards!” Simone’s emotions got the
better of her. “Let those helpless people go
and fight like soldiers!” She gritted her
teeth. “Two of them are children!” Simone
muttered her observations to Private
Joseph and Private Edwards, declaring her
disgust of the Fedayeen tactics.
Stabilizing her left eye, Simone dialed in
on the militia holding the toddler boy as her
first target. He was so small. At one point,
they had talked about a little boy. Joan and
Simone often talked about silly things like
family and marriage. And, that was gone
118
now. They took that future from her. It
would never come to be. No more… There
would be no more futures taken by these
cowards.
Simone signaled her readiness. It was a
signal to start engaging stealthily from the
rooftop. Staff Sergeant Steven Roberts
mistakenly acknowledged her cue from the
roof through his binoculars. He believed it
as a clearance to embark on foot below.
He gave the signal for the squad to move
in and engage. That was an unfortunate
mistake. Some of the privates immediately
opened fire with their M27 rifles. Others
used their M79 grenade launchers to bring
down the building where more armed
Fedayeen had been spotted.

119
 But, the Fedayeen militia had been
waiting for the 1st Marines Division.
Dragging civilians out into the open street,
they used them as bait for the squad. It
was a disgustingly effective maneuver. If
the squad pursued their plan to rescue the
hostages, the militia inside the building
would ambush them. And if they went after
the militia inside, then they would have
more dead civilians on their hands.
When does morality supersede duty?
Staff Sergeant Roberts, Simone quickly
realized, you should have known. We
should not have engaged. The three of us
atop the roof can take them all out one by
one. Simone lamented over the Staff
Sergeant’s decision.

120
 Flickering lights dotted the combat theatre
as it was now open fire on both sides. It
must be combat fatigue, Simone
concluded. She attempted to take out the
captors. But, she kept missing her targets.
In the crossfire, she witnessed the squad
take out the helpless father. They were
simply trying to take out the Fedayeen
militia behind him. The dead man fell to the
ground. Simone then saw the teenage girl
fall next. And, then, she saw the mother.
Stop! They are civilians! Simone pleaded
in silence. She wanted so desperately to
call out to them, to get them to stop. But,
what good would that have done? There
was no way she was giving up her rooftop
position to the militia below.

121
 Fatigue was affecting her vision.
Increasingly hazy, her sight was
worsening. She no longer had a visual of
what was going on below with Staff
Sergeant Roberts and the squad. To her,
there was just a bunch of dots and flashing
lights slowly shifting through a blurry
canvas. In the midst of the crossfire, there
was an outline. Very familiar, a form
appeared to her. It was the silhouette of a
lithe female figure with long silky blonde
hair. Lit up like an angel with a shimmering
halo, the silhouette became radiant. This
radiant figure was clad in a pure white long
gown that almost covered her bare feet.
The angelic female figure gracefully floated
inches above the ground, down the narrow
street, and right into the crossfire,
122
unscathed. Puzzled, Simone rubbed her
eyes in astonishment. The angel stopped
and hovered beside the militia holding the
toddler boy hostage. Her hand reached
over to caress the child's face as if to calm
him for what was to come next.
Miss Joan Jiang? Despite her vision being
hazy, Simone knew for certain that this was
her former lover. Or, did she? She had
been fighting for so long, driven only by
pain and a burning desire to make such
pain stop.
Was she really seeing what she thought
she was seeing? Was it a mirage? Was her
fatigue and deep desire for her lover
playing tricks with her mind?
What are you doing here, Joan? Get out
of the way! The boy needs me! she
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questioned the floating angelic figure of
Miss Joan Jiang in silence.
It was childish, selfish but she had hoped
that the angelic figure could read her
thoughts. Where had she ever read such
an ability for angels? Nowhere. It was faith.
She had faith that her partner could do in
death what she had done in life: read her
emotions. Joan was so much better at
being a person, the person that people
needed. Joan was amazing. Seeing her
made Simone’s heart flutter. She looked
good. In fact, she looked better than when
she was alive. Whatever holy lights they
were handing out in heaven, it really
worked for her complexion. She was
immaculate. But, then again, Joan always
was. It soon became obvious to Simone as
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her thought sped a mile a minute, she fell
in love with Joan all over again.
Silently, Joan beamed her a look of
acknowledgment. As if to confirm that she
could hear her thoughts, her eyes met
Simone’s with an intensity that jolted her
heart. It was strong, pure. The amount of
passion behind her eyes was far greater
than when she was alive.
Save the child, Simone. Love the child as
our own. He needs us. He needs you. And
you need him. It was unmistakable.
Simone had awakened to that voice
hundreds of times. It was the voice that
warmed her bed, that cheered her on with
her programming snags. It was the same
voice that haunted her every waking
moment after the incident. She had
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memorized every inflection, heard it on
repeat ever since the day Joan died. It was
not fatigue. This was Joan. This was her
lover. Simone heard Joan's voice echoing
in her head once again.
As Simone reached for Joan’s radiant
figure, it faded. It vanished, leaving Simone
behind. And, she was back in the chaotic
reality of the crossfire between the squad
and the Fedayeen paramilitary irregular
force. Without hesitation, Simone pressed
her finger on the M27 trigger. Her aim was
true. She took out the militia behind the
toddler boy. It was immediately before
multiple rocket-propelled grenades flew
straight at the rooftop. They exploded and
caved in the roof. The grenades pummeled
the two privates, along with her, down to
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the ground floor inside the collapsed
building. Dust kicked up and their radios
fell silent.

********************

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